Stories of Kaare's

Untitled Renderings of the Sub Continent

2011-08-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

I remember a place called Jinu Danda
town like a nipple
on the lesser of two breasts
bumpy mountain retreat
sandwiched between China
and the ballsweat sub-continent of India
it had behind it
trails to 8000 metre peaks
and below it
rivers that ran to towns
cities, factories, and
dams

I looked up
neck craned at the impossible angle
of futures dreamed
with sweaty palms
and fell
tumbling down
into the river

the dam was sudden
splattered LooneyToon style
and drowned in reality
I craned
and craned
my neck
back and up
where I had been
what had happened to Jinu Dando?
that impossible point on an impossible bossom
breathing hope
or glory

The Captain and I

2011-05-05T07:01:00.000-07:00

The right cup of Earl Grey
oily with bergamot
tannin with Ceylon histories
swirls with overcast afternoons
in my Grandma's dining room
near the kitchen
where she dried her herbs

Outside: the acorns
and little Spruce cones
fell among her potato patches
waiting to be collected and jarred
to be stored in the root cellar
pirate treasure
building below the black-currant hedges

The same cup of Earl Grey
pitches and yaws
on the ocean
sliding like a drunken sailor
across the mess table
of my father's trawler
next to the oil-stove that's always hot

Outside: gear is spooling
flashers are spinning
tunes are whistling
but here inside
for a moment now
my cup of Earl Grey and I
stay and steep awhile.

Wine...and I watched Eat, Pray, Love...

2011-03-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

Life lost me. Perhaps somewhere in the woods between Langford and Lithuania. Perhaps before, in university course loads and career misdirections. It wasn't the first time, and I'm nearly certain it won't be the last. The quest to find Life is somehow more defining of a characteristic for me than is the life I live itself.

Don't think of me as unhealthy.

Think instead of a traveler who's quest to free himself from the bonds of self has set him apart and to the shores of Turkey, Iran, India and occasionally the flaccid hanging dong of North America known as "Florida".

Once I even lost Life while searching for it abroad. In the overpopulace of mainland China I both discovered and rediscovered the grail of me. But when it slipped from my hands I left again and the jetstream took me further south. I even brought a camera.

In South East Asia I drank and wrote myself on riverbanks and road edges. I glimpsed the past and what might be of the future. I felt again, the fibers that made my chest expand and my eyes focus. They were in there, sure. But they were deep somewhere. Layers of city grime and humanitarian guilt clogged them up.

So I met a girl.

I didn't want to meet a girl because sometimes I feel that it was meeting a girl that left me lost in the first place. But I met one anyway.

She was strong.

Hell, she was even tough, but I felt in her something muscular and fibrous and undeniable. Hell, her musculoskeletal self pulled me right out of my little quest to find me again in all the wrong places. She pulled me right opposite and like an elastic in a test faucility it snapped right back, bounced, split, reverberated and came to rest right where I was headed away from. And here, here where I was headed away from I sensed a presence that I hadn't in awhile:

Me.

Me was sitting there, deep inside an unconscious ignorance that I had been ignoring. Here was Me and Me was Here. Here was Me with Her and Her was showing Here how to fucking step aside and let Me be. Nice. I liked that.

So I put aside the fight to find what I was looking for and let the world slide by; somehow just like I had done before, just this time without the Syrias, Finlands or dangerous near encounters with Bin Ladens. Here was some kind of love. Love for me and love for her and though I couldn't explain or rationalise it I knew it.

Cut.

Drift.

Be with her because she was the moment. She was the now. And now she is the now and I drift unconscious through the space and time around her; observer of the world at large. The world that drifts through and around me. Life, the essence that the Skeksis tried to distill in the Dark Crystal is the stuff I'm drifting through now, again. No more searching, because in allowing her to be I've found the life around me. She is my current and I am her sailboat. Together, we're reaching land.

Bitchinest Vegan Enchilada Sauce Recipe

2011-01-07T18:29:00.000-08:00

What's Inside:

3 tbsps vegetable oil
1 tbsp all-purpose flour
2 cups vegetable stock
1 dried Ancho chili
10 oz tomato paste
1/2 tbsp ground cumin
1/2 tbsp dried oregano
1 tsp ground black pepper
salt to taste

First ya gotta make or buy some vegetable stock (the non-tomato kind). I made mine with a mirepoix (pictured below) plus portabella mushroom stems, garlic, thyme, oregano and bay leaves:

Mirepoix Ratio - 2:1:1 (Onion: Carrot: Celery)

Then, in 2 hot cups of said vegetable stock, you gotta soak yourself a big ol' dried Ancho chili (rinse it first, then cut open to remove seeds, veins and stem). Eventually your veg stock will get crazy spicy and full bodied. Don't worry if it's overwhelming at first because once the other ingredients are added it will tame down to a medium-spice. (Hint: this is a variable in your dish and will depend on your taste...you may even want to use more than one of these chilies if you like it hot).

An Ancho Chili - Sweet and robust

In a separate sauce pot on medium heat mix together about 3 tbsps of vegetable oil and 1 tbsp of flour with a wooden spoon and cook for about 3 minutes (but not so much as to start browning the mixture). This is called a roux and will add thickness and body to your sauce.

Roux Blonde - a lipid and some flour cookin' away (keep stirring to avoid browning or burning locally)

Once your roux is cooked up, pour in your stock that has had that chili steeping in it (remove the chili; it's like a teabag to you now...but if you want to add more chili and body to this recipe and happen to have a blender of some kind you can just purée the thing into it all later). Use a whisk to blend together the stock and roux and watch as it magically thickens!

Now that you've got a solid flavour and consistency base going on, you're going to want to chuck in about 10 ounces of tomato paste and whisk it all together, at this point you'll see what your end consistency will be. Feel free to thin it out by adding a bit more stock (or water, if you've run out of stock) till you reach the thickness you want. Ideally, an enchilada sauce is thicker than a traditionally described French sauce cos it's meant to really stick to things.

Finally, you're just going to season this thing with the necessary flavours which are traditionally: Oregano, Cumin and Black Pepper. The potency of the spices in your cabinet will vary so feel free to adjust this to taste. Keep in mind that dried spices take a moment to release their flavours into a dish...so let 'em cook for a few minutes before adding any more. Then, of course, you'll have to season this with a bit of salt to bring out all the flavours (this one's up to you).

Enjoy!

Enchilada Sauce - ...this is pretty much what it looks like...

Podcast - Autumn Ampersand Kaare

2011-01-04T18:22:00.000-08:00

California, the land that is not Florida but has orange groves, the birthplace of Tom Petty('s music career, but not of Tom Petty), the land that is the theme of our podcast here...

Shutter Speeds

2010-12-20T10:35:00.000-08:00

The endless clicking of shutters
has stuttered the words in my pen
where before
thought would undress
for the chance to find expression
in language
I am left dumb
and empty as the space
16 to 200 millimetres
between the last focal element
and the digital sensor

for the image rendered
is not imagery
it does not
as poetry
read

too two-dimensional to have voice
too .raw to express nature
too honest to have depth

Tonsai, Yangshuo, Chiangmai, Halong Bay, sigh...

2010-12-16T22:36:00.001-08:00

Dear Asia,

I miss you and your people and my people and my people's people who are all up in there.

Your rocks are nice, your opportunities are fruitful...if only I could seed my photography career there somehow...

What America Does

2010-10-21T17:23:00.000-07:00

America: a land of plenty; a land of opportunity; a land of stuff.

This is what America has that Australia didn't:

$15 Mobile Phones
Strobist: bare 580exii with 1/2CTO gel from close right of subject
and slightly elevated, left fill from white bounce card (aka some
cardboard from Cindy's Halloween costume package). bare 430exii
with 1/2CTB gel bounced off ceiling. (The vignetting was done in
Lightroom though...)

Drip Coffee
Strobist: foolishly bare 580exii from 45 deg
right of camera and close to subject with
left fill coming from afore mentioned
bounce card. bare 430exii from directly
behind subject with wide beam (a few
metres back)

Pancakes (not crepes)
Strobist: Same as above, but back light is
set at 45 deg back left of subject.

Hybrid Revolution
Strobist: 580exii through 8" softbox 45deg
right of subject, 430exii with full CTO gel
bounced off back wall

Carnivore Adventure!

2010-09-13T01:38:00.000-07:00

Autumn and I are, right now, riding out the last few stressful packing days of our Tasmanian chapter. Before we bid this little island farewell though, we wanted to tick a couple of little achievements. One of these was to see a Tasmanian Devil and a Spotted Quol in the wild. Muthauckahs is cute afterall!

So, with an inquiry to the local carnivore expert, we determined a location in the south of Tasmania called Cockle Creek which promised to be rich in meat eaters.

View Larger Map

Here is the unfolding of our little adventure:

As with any good adventure, wine on the beach
was how it all started.

Then with a good head of lower-economic-
bracket house red, we pitched our tent...

...cooked up a feast of leftover soup...

...and set up a camera trap!
*Strobist: 580exII into softbox infront of and 45 deg to right of subject
430exII bare behind at 45 degrees to left of subject and elevated
~all triggered with Cactus V4

We used some ground up Kangaroo bits (read: "Roo Mince")
as bait for any carnivores brave enough to walk around the
tripods and ominous lighting equipment.

Some critters (read: the army of Pademelons endlessly
patrolling our campsite) were curious enough about the
lights at least...

One of the Paddies was even a little bit curious about the
ground up blob of her (you can tell she's female by the
bulge in her pouch) larger cousin, making us a little
curious about the eating habits of these "so-called
herbivores" ...

...

The pademelons eventually gave up on the meat though,
generally freaking out a little when they got close enough
to smell it. And so we waited into the night...until it
started to rain and we had to pull down all the lights and
retreat into our tent (which survived the near-Antarctic like
conditions quite admirably). Without the lights, we didn't
stand a chance of getting a picture in the dark, so we gave
up and bunkered down for a cold night (well, I didn't
think it was that cold, but Autumn has Californian
blood and she found it pretty chilly...granted, as soon
as it got dark, the ground froze solid and winds started
harassing the tent).

...

Of course, in the morning the meat blob cum bait ball
was gone without a trace, save for some trampled bush.

We didn't find any tracks though, but the fellow pictured
below was flying awfully low to the ground, as though
his belly was laden with a lead weight, or, perhaps,
fist-sized ball of raw kangaroo flesh.

Stories in the Fog

2010-08-08T19:35:00.000-07:00

Today, after years of driving past Yak Peak on the Coquihalla, I finally managed to get a crew together to go out there, park on the side of the highway, hike into bear territory and climb the bastard.

So, up at 4:30 after a night of heavy electro dancing and King's Cup competitionery. Up to cat allergies. Up to a two hour drive up the hill and into the sunrise. Up and up and up right into the fog. Fog that would surely lift off; surely burn off as that great big ball of fire lit up the Alpine. Up and up through bear shit and soggy duff. Up to the anchors we couldn't see through the fog. Oh commitment, how you drive a beaten Cadillac of misdirection. To the top of the first pitch and into the rain. Drizzle. Windy slapping downpour...waterfall over 100% of the exposed face.

Turned tail.

And went home to dry out our gear and eat tempura donburi.

The evening starts with some harmless turntable music in the living room.

Less than 8 hours later, I am here...in a cloud.

Jake looks ahead to approaching storm fronts moving down the mountain face while belaying Christina to the top of pitch 1, where we'll later discover a waterfall and learn about the advantages of weather-sealed camera housing.

In The Muir

2010-08-07T11:18:00.001-07:00

In The Muir
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 8th August, 2010

I visited a grove of giant redwood trees in Frisco. This is what I saw. Monolythes from another time, standing great and tall. (I think that's in nearly Iambic Pentametre, btw)

Latency Adds Potency?

2010-07-01T05:40:00.000-07:00

If I lactate latency does it add potency
to the filigree melody of this post's symmetry?
Electrically?

I haven't written to myself on here in awhile, true. Here's the go down though, I did a self-portrait shoot to get my photo mojo going again and here's what happened, something not utterly crap!:

Canon 5D Mark II
remotely triggered, manually set master Speedlight 580 EX II (through a diffusing white umbrella) that then triggered a rim flash from a slave manual set Speedlight 430 EX II! And all of this was captured through my new 50mm f/1.4. Hot!

India (And How She Helped me To See Myself)

2010-02-17T04:49:00.000-08:00

The Dalai Lama distributed
his cup full of grace
and I
ceremoniously
accepted with palms up
body rigid, pushed through assembled masses
of exiled Tibetan New Years
to a waiting coach
with no suspension
seen off by a beautiful new friend
to rock nausea through my guts
but still I did not spill

Delhi in her finest bedclothes
stained in spots with pre-dawn
rickshaw drivers
and our coach stopped to kneel
at the feet of them
250Rs. (250% the going rate)
my fingers grate the sleep from my eyes
bargain for my right to 110%
tax for white skin
our second sleepless day begins
the cup full of grace
holding every silver drop
in a rickshaw hopping red-light "suggestions"

We stop
We are 5:30am (5 hours early)
to appointments
at Max Super Specialty Hospital
medical tourism headquarters
our driver moans for 50 more
me, two bags, a tired girlfriend
and a frothy cup of grace
ignore the pleas
50Rs. more
broken English that misses
the "magic" word
for undeserved surplus

Inside we fight our heavy eyes
order chai
receive "VAT"
pull the stopper
and slip a cheeky drop of grace
into soggy paper cups
we slowly sip
my belly rumbles
hunger?
bus-ride-busted bowels respond
and I shit my favourite underwear
while in an uncleaned hospital latrine
I struggle off the many too-warm layers
a mostly full cup of grace
waits on a cafeteria
table top

My a1/a2 vertebrae pop
so I XRAY a 3-day headache
nothing
1100Rs.
and a patronising patriarchal physician
the girlfriend pays 3000Rs. more
for hers
and nearly cries
there was a cup here somewhere

We hit the Hard Rock New Delhi
Mexican import bottle beers
and Nachos
FULL ORDER
my one-day late
Valentine's reprise
in an A/C shopping mall
away from the grey skies of smog
horns
madness
my tab on an empty pocket
I.O.Her 2235Rs.
but 2 beers is like grace
the kind that makes this 3.5-day headache
static-rumble loud

We catch a movie to avoid the crowd
I buy new headphones to drown them out
Sherlock Holmes plays too loud
we dip tissues in the silver stuff
and pack our ear holes
for tympanic protection
finish up
and arrange a battered auto-rickshaw
to the wrong railway station
which I discover after endless queries
(A working miracle in themselves)
muted by new headphones
filling the cognitive areas
left between
the scattered 3.7 day headache
...
ipod off and hidden
we ride the metro
on 500 grams of paracetemol
and 8Rs.
to Old (not "New") Delhi station

Engines and cars
and cabooses and cars
and engines
splash through shit-covered tracks
and on the edge of collapse
near falling in
the crowd and luggage
surge and scream
a man collapses under the press
I help him up
save his life
and remember the cup I'm holding
somewhat chipped
by the press of countless writing
people

Jump aboard 3 cars off
fight my 30Kg load
through upper-class passengers
to A1-12 and 44
opposite ends
penalised arrangements
for moments late booking
no matter
my sleepless battered brain
is 4 days deep
and I'm at my "seat/sleep"
jacket off
and pillow of dirty clothes
rolled
(for safety) pack away
passport, portable hard-drive
(with lifetime of pictures)
ipod
ipod?
card wallet?
FUCKING POCKET SLASHED (new jacket)
FUCKING BANKCARD
FUCKING MONEY
IPOD
gone
CUP OF FUCKING GRACE
cracked
just a few drops left
cut my lips
on the rim
knock back the contents
graceful nightcap
dream of nothing
nothingness
emptiness
...
8.6 hours of gracefulness
to grey morning skies
slipping by this tinted window
grace used up
so the Wala sells us cups of chai
and my addled mind
fits and seizes
my epilepsy tablets still packed deeply in
this dusty rucksack
I dump hot magma chai
all over my crotch
too dehydrated to construct even a tear
I lay back
close the curtain and fall
forward into the next destination
Darjeeling
where I'm dreaming visions of Himalayas
unpeopled
unsupporting
snow covered
and cold like home
2.1 weeks of beard growth
are itching
anxious
naturally gracing my face with warmth
existing untrimmed as is
simply 'is'
I 'am'
this and that 'are'

i order another chai
no spill
no fit this time
and the silver stuff inside
slides down easy
the ground is creaking
or clacking
below
there are
2156 Kilometres
and a lifetime to go

Canadian Man

2010-02-17T04:30:00.000-08:00

Met an man
of Canadian nature
bent knees
bent back
the split palms of labour
he called himself Chris
the machinist
he held up those hands
singing psalms of praise
to a Northern life
lines like river valleys
dissecting mountains
pouring down
converging at the wrist
and rooted there

"here, you see"
and he pointed
finger to flesh
"ignoring the rest
the widest crease is here"
beneath
the tendons worked their way
and the digits swayed
branches
counting
falling and rising
"Belgium, Hungary, Iran, Syria, Lebanon, India, Latvia, China, Estonia, Finland..."
and on and on he went
fingers bent or straight
and still the tendons slid
and bulged
and dipped below the thickness
of the wrist
strings bouncing
humming:
East coast Gaelic shanties
West coast hard-core ballads
Yukon caribou wails
and all
under winters' white wash
muffled static
always there to hum
in a moment of silence
always there

Sky Over Landspace

2009-12-19T22:59:00.001-08:00

Sky Over Landspace
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 20th December, 2009

Time's are a changing as things fall into place.

An obsession with climbing internationally that started nearly two years ago in this same place (Hampi, India) has come full circle to fruition. I'm trading in my plans of going to the Mid East, Europe and Africa for a full two year committed climbing tour, driving through the Americas with three lovely people and potentially a load of sponsorship. I've been reminded to be more creative so let me just delve into the touchy-feely:

The water has taken it's time to wear away the burs and borough through. Two years plus and pushing five more. This life of travels wears one smooth, leaves the hardened core of genuine ambition clear. I am ambitious in this only. My life falls together; photography, climbing, friendship and love. The measure of success is only in your ability to spot a line, to harness coincidence as omen and pursue happiness.

To test and test and test myself against the campus of every opportunity. And so I return to the Americas.

The Edge Of Reality Is A Frayed Nerve

2009-10-26T04:31:00.000-07:00

The day before my 2 year anniversary of leaving Canada I'm waiting for visiting hours at a Northern Thai prison. I sit in the grass discussing manifest psychology and drinking iced coffee. A woman stalks the crowd outside, hawking colourful balaclavas. The sun moves a little and steals the shade I was using. Jesse and I compensate.

The black vinyl seat of our rented scooter is getting too hot in the afternoon sun. I feel dehydrated and my right hand has an unidentifiable stench about it. Hand sanitiser is too pussy for a seasoned traveler, so I rub it into my hands when the crowds attention is called away for an announcement of the prisoners who have lined up behind the bulletproof glass. Our friend's name is called out in Thai. We hesitate. It's called again, this time with the prison guard flagging our attention.

Inside, Ikiu is remarkably happy, but the cigarettes we bought him cannot be passed through the speakerbox. He asks for 200 Baht as the timer goes off and he's drawn away from us. We oblige and he smiles. The two actions have no correlation.

Outside we transfer our money in. I recognise an old face from a distant time when I traveled here before. Peter is white, old, morally bankrupt and someone I could never trust. I like his stories. He tells us that Ikiu is in the can with his good mate, that his uncle is connected to the local mafia and that the motive of his crime was vague. The police exaggerated, but he did chase someone down with a Samurai sword on his scooter. I think of Kill Bill immediately. A new fondness for Ikiu sweeps over us.

Later we will join Peter for whiskey.

Hookerville

2009-10-07T01:52:00.000-07:00

Hookerville, aka Datang, is the border town/slum/sprawling bordello of sin and kareoke between Thailand and Malaysia but mostly in Thailand. It's also the town where we spent our last evening on this, our epic journey to extend our Thai visas.

Hollywood Club

Oscar's Entertainment Palace Complex

Helo Bangkok

Erotic Kareoke

A Line Of Ketamine Off A Hooker's Ass

I also bought black market Gudang Garam Indonesian Kreteks for a buck and a quarter.

Lonelily

2009-09-24T04:17:00.000-07:00

It's raining on Tonsai
I'm flashing 7a
Rolled cigarettes burn away the afternoon
I think about the phone numbers I don't know anymore
and wonder where to find them
Humidity halts tattoo healage
I contemplate a year on the road
Things cycle back to tendon strength
I drink a Sangsom Soda to burn off the cold
Emotions roll around and sour in the cheap whisky
I blog

Me, I'm A Ramblin' Man

2009-09-10T21:42:00.000-07:00

Ramblin' Man by Lemon Jelly...loving that tune all up and down the world these days. Here's a poem I wrote on a bus while smoking hand rolled cigarettes and trying to decipher Kerouac:

We're going, we're going
where?
hold on
stick head out window
of moving
bus
catch
breath
velocity forced
wind down throat
gasp
fight word out
Suph...an...buri?
How do you spell that?
"Chao Rai?"
"Lok Sip Baht!"
"120 togedder"

SEAHORSES!!!!

2009-09-04T00:04:00.001-07:00

SEAHORSES!!!!
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 4th September, 2009

He Xin and I have finally finished our mad UNICEF assignment...I'm just posting off the photos now...it seems that these photos view a bit desaturated in web browsers, but the originals are all a lot more sun pumped. Anyway, look at how mad cute this kid is. Chinese children could be the new source of renewable energy if we can only figure out how to distill "cute"

Break Wrist

2009-08-20T22:57:00.001-07:00

Break Wrist
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 24th September, 2007

I came across a brilliant web comic that's basically changed my life...or at least my afternoons at work.

This is basically why I will always hate point and shoot cameras.

BattleStar

2009-08-20T01:14:00.000-07:00

My friend has hidden all of the season 4 Battlestar Galactica disks again. My private revolt has been to wikisearch Grace Park and try to imagine how awesome it would be if I moved to Vancouver and she left her husband and did chinups for me. Sigh.

In other news I'm WORKING for UNICEF and I feel a little dirty about being paid by them. Not, like, Ron Jeremy dirty, but certainly a little tainted.

Oh yeah, and my website needs your critique.
do that

www.kaareiverson.com

Love

Ascent Into Globalism

2009-08-02T23:01:00.001-07:00

Ascent Into Globalism
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 3rd August, 2009

China is moving forward and I'm moving out...back to simpler things where there's only electricity at night...and then only sometimes. In the near future my sunny skies will not be obstructed by buildings and I will not climb out of caves using these confounded electronic stairs!

Tinkerbell

2009-07-22T21:57:00.001-07:00

Tinkerbell
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 23rd July, 2009

We took a bus
any bus
and got lost in the Chinese stops
got off
got more lost
found a market
took some pictures
bought some 回力s
now my kicks are slick
and so is this pic

*rhyming structure not intentional*

*Also, I've been watching a lot of Beyonce concert footage lately. You should to if you're feeling randy or like...whatever.*

The Depths Of Ignorance

2009-07-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

The boss is out of town. Earlier today the receptionist put an Ibiza trance rave on the communal television set. It was loud and obnoxious and full of extasy fueled boobs. I liked The Beyonce Experience more. I wish they would put that back on.

Apparently my concern with what's W.A. is waning. Today I caught MYSELF looking at tits in a glass walled office. I think I'm going to try to intern for Vice.

Forgotten Ramblings

2009-07-17T01:03:00.000-07:00

Facebook: Blocked
youtube: Blocked
Blogger: Blocked
Twitter: Blocked
Flickr: Sporadically available
most proxies: blocked
My time in China: coming to an end.

I'll be moving on back to South East Asia soon...back to Thailand, back to Tonsai, back to two months of rock climbing and adventurous substance abuse (I only really just said that cos I know my Mom reads this).

I've (99% sure) landed a job in Tonsai working as a professional climbing photographer for OnTheRocks. Dream Job! Hot Damn! Come visit!

I've rediscovered a love for Michael Jackson. I guess that when stars fall out of the sky we are prone to mourning them with our love.

Speaking of stars, I've started to watch BattleStar Galactica. I know that some readers of this blog are saying "finally!" others are saying "lame!" and still others are trying to pronounce "Galactica".

Finally, I may have H1N1. Probably not though as I seem to be getting better and this seems awfully reminiscent of that time that I thought I had SARS the last time I was living here.

Racist Toothpaste

2009-07-08T22:13:00.001-07:00

Life Abroad
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 9th July, 2009

In the last two years I've gone through three pairs of shoes and 7 pairs of flip flops. I've been hidden away in desert oases leaning Persian drum technique and photo paper emulsion. I've readied a knife in my fist when it seemed certain that the Russian mafia we'd been drinking with in a post-soviet state were about to turn on us. I've studied the inner workings of a 17th century bell tower. I've sat under the sun in the birthplace of Hannuman and shared opinions through the scarred and bloodied eyes of a meditating Sadhu. I've thrown bananas at an effigy of Parvati, missed, and hit Shiva instead. I've learned to count in more languages than I can calculate. I've grown a love for my life that was never there before. I've opened my eyes to the possibilities below the surface of our reality. I've dipped my toes into Asia.

I sit in the back of the bus
in Asia
on days when the humidity
gets tense enough to burst
and boil monsoons
or typhoons
all over us
I sit in the back of the crowded bus
on padded seats
that smell like pussy sweat
and try not to get aroused
hell
it might be fuzzy balls
for all I know
I could ask
I've studied this language
I could ask
but enough of the mystery of The East
has been revealed
that I leave it
the last gem
of Asia

Asia
you've captured this heart
on plastic clothes pegs
and strung me up to dry for days
under your wet sun

Asia
I'm a Gora
A WaiGuoRen, a Boolei
and a MoGuai
when my feet are flying in flip flops
to smack the sides of fleeing city buses

Asia
I am the deepest well
that can never be filled with
gawping stares
or more pairs of broken flip flops
and no I don't want to tell you how much I paid this time

Asia
I've learned to eat with my hand
and with little wooden sticks
but still you've got to question
your eyes at the sight of this

Asia, baby, darling
I'm not mad about that time with the Cholera
so please just give it to me
spicy enough to hide the dirt
I'll be happy, you know?

Asia
9900 Rials to the dollar
will 30 cents get me over the border?
The Kurds keep selling me whiskey
and I keep drinking it
even after the sign said
"Death Penalty"
thank you and I'm sorry

Your fragrant offering dish of countries
has confused my senses
and left me stranded
but I don't wanna go yet anyway
are you done with those noodles?

Asia
you've mummified my organs
with cumin and coriander
and MSG powder
I'm damaged goods
and half of me is illegal
to import back to Canada
Between the opiates
I sweat Tumeric and spit Myrrh
Asia
you can't bribe the cops back there
and I'm not painted patriotic
in fact
after all this rice
and whitening soap
I've turned a little yellow
healthy yellow
yellow golden sunshine yellow
and I can't afford to keep canceling these tickets home
so
I guess I'll stay
just one more season on
is that ke yi ma（可以吗）?

Focusing In The Dark

2009-07-02T01:07:00.001-07:00

Focusing In The Dark
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 2nd July, 2009

I can't remember which photographer it was that inspired me to try using this back lighting technique but I effin' love it. It's fantastically cinematic and somehow manages to force the expression of the subject straight down the viewer's throat. It also appears to be a nice match to city backdrops.

The Draw

2009-06-23T23:12:00.000-07:00

I've spent nearly the last year in China trying to distill from all the madness and maddening humidity a reason for why I had once loved this place. A reason for why I had once considered this to be as home as any home. I haven't found it.

What I have discovered instead is a certain bitterness for expatriates who insist on residing here without accepting that they are, in fact, living in China. Those who live with blinders to the culture around them. Those who have been here for five years and still can't ask a taxi to take them home because they don't speak a single syllable of Chinese. Those who I once idolised for their liberal lifestyle, I have come to realise are just the people that I never wanted to be, transplanted into a financially fertile environ. I'm not impressed anymore.

Of course there are exceptions to this example...and, in fairness it's biased more towards expats who actually do have a twisted sort of love for this place and do devote themselves to understanding the language and the culture. I have devoted myself to it, and though I do have a certain love for this place, I now understand that China is not my home (at least not the south) and that I must strike out again in search of this idea of home.

I have a ticket for the 7th of September that flies me straight back to Krabi, Thailand for a two month dpearture from obligations and pollution. I'll be climbing and taking pictures and hopefully getting paid for the latter from time to time. Then the great subcontinent of India will finally finish reeling me back in. The heavily perfumed hooks that it left burried in my heart have been pulling tighter and tighter since I last left and it's time to go back. I'll spend another birthday in a world class climbing hotspot. Hampi will take my fingertips and I will take the power of Hanuman.

And then 2010 will arrive. I will head north with the changing climate until I find myself in Nepal. Here I will join my father for a trekking adventure through the Himalayas, drink Chai at altitude and get drunk on fermented Yak lactates. My beard will grow faster than it ever has and I will dream of the Scandinavian country from which my family came but I have never visited and I will visit it. I will plant all three legs of my tripod firmly strandling a fjord and not leave until I have left my mark in every hipster magazine you were ever cool enough to buy at 7-11.

And then Africa.

*in our next intallment we will discuss the big project: home/canada/sustainability and art spaces

Whipper

2009-06-11T23:54:00.001-07:00

Whipper
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 3rd June, 2009

Hannah Roy...falling

麻将!

2009-05-22T20:57:00.001-07:00

麻将!
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 23rd May, 2009

I can't actually access blogger right now thanks to China's interference...but I can post pics to it through flickr. Ah the wonder of syndication.

Patio Over The Deck

2009-05-13T22:13:00.001-07:00

Patio Over The Deck
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 14th May, 2009

A day of mega multipitching on limestone Karsts with Hannah Roy in Yangshuo, China

Rendezvous

2009-05-08T02:30:00.001-07:00

Rendezvous
Originally uploaded by kaare.iverson
on the 8th May, 2009

Here it is, the first of a new career...well, it's not really anywhere near a career yet, but I did do a restaurant review and this is what came out of it. It's my first (to be) published work with the intent of "being" a photographer.

Yangshuo Assault

2009-05-06T04:58:00.000-07:00

Let's take our clothes off and see who's stronger.

Jewnicorn

2009-04-29T22:52:00.000-07:00

Nathan moved to China with us! Yay!

No Photo Force

2009-04-21T22:56:00.001-07:00

I have no photos to back this up but I did just return from a quick trip to Yangshuo where I saw Chris Sharma and his GF. Sadly I didn't have the opportunity to either meet them or watch them climb. Balls...but I did get to crank on a new project on Lei Pi Shan which I hope to redpoint next week and I did get a gnarly sunburn from an unsuccessful 25km bicycle ride hunt for The Egg (another bluff in Yangshuo).

Overall, after hanging out with traveling climbers again I've been reminded that working is for suckers and dirtball climbing is for winners. I'm going to be a winner again soon. 4 more months...

Skullhammer

2009-04-12T19:24:00.000-07:00

My cousin's band Skullhammer thrashed the Kelowna Mission Hall while he was back from music school for the Easter holiday.

Canon 5D Mark II
EF 16-35mm f/2.8L II USM @35mm
1/80
f/2.8
ISO 800
Concert's stage lights

Cute Eyes

2009-03-20T04:56:00.000-07:00

Look at these cute eyes.

Canon 430EXII Speedlight Manual

2009-03-13T19:32:00.000-07:00

If you're like me and you ended up with a Canon 430EXII Speedlight sans manual or with a manual in a language other than English, French, or Spanish then this link is probably pretty useful for you (it covers the custom functions new to this model and gives some additional info that wasn't completely covered in the 430EX manual):

http://akamaipix.crutchfield.com/Manuals/280/280430EXII.PDF

*at the time of posting Canon has yet to list a downloadable version of the manual

Photo Force

2009-03-11T06:08:00.000-07:00

I'm trying out some new styles and techniques...and my new lens and flash:

Teaching English as a Second Life

2009-03-05T21:25:00.000-08:00

There are 6 folders on my desk. Each folder takes an hour to teach, so each folder represents an hour of work. I hate working for someone else so this work is called labour. There are 6 hours of labour on my desk. I must do them one at a time.

There is one email in my inbox. It is a poignant invitation to work as a photographer in the West Bank of Israel. This is what I want to be doing. I love this idea, so I will call it love. There is one love in my email inbox and I must love it all at once.

Recyclable Language

2009-02-28T23:48:00.000-08:00

I've written enough selfish love poems
on foolscap Chinese lantern craft paper
to tip the balance
in the battle against Green Peace
and since I'd rather be on their side
I'm giving that up
so this is not a love poem
this is a petition
that was written on
recycled cardboard
with broken corners
from too many hands' use
because we've all had this idea
but perhaps gotten a bit confused
by the muse we met shopping for beige capris
at Wall-mart

the idea that "Love Is A Battlefield"
and that we need to hide
ourselves
from the bruises of our Lovers
wear "Boy's Night Out" like body armour
and play poker to play off
our responsibilities to expectation
expecting that saying
"I love you"
means I'll mold myself to you and
you to me
until two becomes three
and we bear the bastard child of
forced fidelity between us
bear it like infidelity
bear it like, damn!
Why'd I ever say, "I love you"?

was it your super-rad purple Converses shoes?
your emo-core tattoos?
the loose strand of hair that
deliberately
hung there?

did you ensnare me again
in the complex web of romantic dynamics?
the ones we were taught
and bought into without critical though
the ones with the ideas of romantic
perfection
unachievable and ever sought
the ones brought over by Turkish poets
and injected into the infected
remains of arcane European
God fearing
Woman hating culture?!
Are you again
the Holy Virgin Mary
begotten by the Magdalene
begotten by the Mandala
begotten by Gaiya
forgotten but for the clay idols
cast in blind female form
little nipples made with torn and dirty finger nails
...

do you think we needed a feminist movement then?

when the bends and curves of beauty were built on functionality
when a woman not
pinioned up on high-heels
like a cornerstore popsicle
available everywhere
predictable, pre-wrapped and
disposable
was yet considered hot!
when expectations of the self-titled "relationship"
had yet to be defined
and the institution
of wedlocking paperwork
had yet to pollute
the formless idea of love
and this boy/girl bullshit
didn't enter into it
no blue job
pink job
no home job
office job
better job
bitter job
not even the language to express the difference
between want
and need
and so true love was born
as we beat the meaning into our chests
hunger = want
desire = want
need = want
and the selfish became beautiful
no room for the convoluted
everything said was true

want you
want you
I want you

Photo-Ma-Blog

2009-02-21T21:59:00.000-08:00

Here's hoping that none of my current employers read my blog:

So, in a never ending quest for change and general escapism from complacency (this sentence structure sucks), I'm becoming a photographer...yep, I'm giving up English teaching (after this contract...) and pursuing something that I've loved all along. In as much, here's a photo:

I Like...

2009-02-03T23:39:00.000-08:00

I like it when the weatherman stares blankly with that lost expression, standing in front of his green-screen at the end of the report, waiting for the cameras to cut back to the main desk.

I like it when porn stars have pimples on their asses.

I like it when people absently bump into the corner of a shopping mall kiosk and look at it as though it was the corner's fault.

Dead Trees Come Alive

2009-02-01T03:20:00.000-08:00

I'm here to pull apart
Le Bonaparte mentality
that's come between you and me
the trinity
two humans and their spirit; three
and I'm sure that you'll agree
never to disagree that a tree is green
and all the things we've seen and done
when divided by the final sum
equal out to one

even the Math Rabbit running
8-bit laps in my mind sees it
and he's from a consciousness of raw logic
Commodore 64
and very little more, you see
we grew tired
and hardwired
on the plastic canvas
and brand this
The Golden Cow
The 电脑 (dian nao / computer)
但是这个有问题 (dan shi zhe ge you wen ti / there's a problem with this)
这个没有 creativity (zhe ge mei you / this doesn't have...)
这个没有 the ability (zhe ge mei you / this doesn't have...)
to see with more than electric eyes
and catalogue eclectic styles
and all the while we model our minds
and build our bodies in the blocky style
of 0's and 1's

the machine flexes its guns
but I can see it's come undone
Frank Booth broke the back off
of knock-off tape decks
torn up and rewired
Ghetto style
Bubonic-ebonic-electronics
because they made a better noise
as they were being destroyed
this is the subconcious reemployed
thought was meant to be enjoyed
not toyed and fucked with
till it fit on a floppy disk
hold up
let me list the risks of thinking that thought is otherwise:
1.) To so compromise our minds might make madness the foreman of art, rather than the other way around
2.) The crown of thorns was worn by he who wanted us to see that we are one. If we forget the battles fought for freedom of thought then it's fair the think that we in turn will bear the burden of a hopeless flight to barbarism.
3.) Without a mind to mix, melodies will sound like this--

Guangzhou Schedule

2009-01-22T01:56:00.000-08:00

The woman at Starbucks speaks Chinese to me and English to the Chinese customers who enter after me. I order a Tuna Puff and a Grande Coffee of the Week. I know all the language except for "Tuna Puff" and "Coffee of the Week" and I get what I want.

Last night I woke up in the middle of the witching hour because the cats were playing a banjo and the juxtaposition made me feel uncomfortable.

Don't Be Such A Melancholy Bitch At 10am

2008-12-05T01:01:00.000-08:00

I wake up to rain. The padlock on my window rusts a little faster. Perhaps one day it will rust through and I might open the anti-theft bars to let in the 7 story tree that I stare at each day.

The rain continues. The rain slows. The rain nearly stops and I know that if I look out my window and down to the street I'll see all the pollution it has picked up making sick little rivers. The construction sounds start again. It's 10:16am.

My friend, the tree outside the window, is looking fresh and clean. There are clustered buds of will-be flowers growing between the leaves. It will bloom for the Spring festival, perhaps in yellow or red.

But I've never seen bees here. All the hummingbirds are kept in cages.

Karst

2008-11-27T20:32:00.000-08:00

In a world of land walkers
where depths are greater than heights
where
"Because it's there"
keeps lashing me forward
I find myself again in the
heart of the middle of nowhere
Yangshuo County
counting out the last hour of being 23
the second consecutive birthday abroad
beside the best broad of my life
surrounded by the dog-eared pages
of climbing guides
and accounted memories
staring into the past
and reading about the future
yet I'm not the first here
I am one of the many few
that find this way in life
this path that doesn't end
yet isn't finished

I hear the click of karabiners
and the shuffle of rope bags
and try to squint far enough ahead
to see past the leaders

I've never heard a rock-drill
so I think about buying one
a battery, spare bits
and a pint of Guinness
I think about sharp edges
shallow pockets
pinches
and a desperate gaston
I produce a short film in my mind
and title it
The One That Wouldn't Go
wonder why we wish we could
but never do
I feel my palms sweat
and crack my knuckles
to remind myself that tendons are
stronger than bone
that if you pull hard enough
eventually the skeleton of doubt
will break
and rake my fingers through
a month's beard growth
the rest is in the first step forward
and these soles aren't yet worn through

Where The Fuck Were You?

2008-10-18T00:12:00.000-07:00

You missed it. You stayed at home. You don't have an excuse as to why you weren't there to cut through the thick clouds of cigarette smoke and anxiety. Frank Booth mashed electro-noise rock and we found the only answer to the tightening in our chests was to move closer. Our tympanum collapsed and stayed marked with the creases you find in recycled tinfoil and can never iron out.

Justice Yeldham took the stage and pressed his face against glass. Pushed until it broke, pushed until blood coloured his beard, pushed until we pushed back and the moment collapsed as he smashed the last pane over his head.

Then silence.

Then applause and we jumped and we hollered. We were cowboys' children with no manners and proud for the ringing in our ears.

We've been waiting to ask you, "where the fuck have you been?"

Soundtrack To Another Country

2008-09-29T08:00:00.000-07:00

It's quite possible that everything I've done has been done so as to be cut up into scenes. These scenes could then be rearranged to fit with a soundtrack. Preferably something French. I've always felt the French were more emotionally endowed. Maybe I mean The Europeans. I guess I mean Scandinavians.

There was this one scene the other day. I was sitting in an office with glass walls which really made me conscious of my chronic nose-picking habit. When I though Chronic I think I may have made a mistake in language. There are books about this. They call it Manifestation. So I thought Chronic and I Manifested something else. Somewhere in my brain some neurons sparked to life at the same time I thought Chronic and they said Eye Thing.

I got Eye Thing for the first time in India and I thought Hot Compress. This helped me to Un-Manifest, which is in and of itself also Manifest. Manifest and Compress worked together and I got better. This time, this time with my finger up my nose, Eye Thing latched onto Self-Conscious and together they got red and swollen and sore. I didn't swear. Well I did, in my brain, but I don't think anyone was listening, at least not Eye Thing. Self-Conscious might have heard though. Actually, I'm pretty sure he did.

Right now, right while I'm writing this but not right while you're reading this, I'm sitting at home watching The L Word. I didn't leave the apartment today because Self-Conscious needed some one-on-one time. Instead I spent the day doing everyone's laundry. It was just my roommates' so I don't mean EVERYONE, but there weren't enough hangers. It took me a long time and I forgot to cook them dinner and now, right now, they feel like Everyone.

In the fragile time between hanging and switching and folding and hanging Everyone's laundry I paused The L Word. This made the time less fragile. This made me feel Different. Not different as in, wow this is completely new, different as in wow this is the me I keep trying to find. I lost Different somewhere back home and I thought that maybe he went travelling so I went travelling, too. Now Different and I are living in China. We even share a bed.

With The L Word not there to converse with Self-Conscious Different got a little bigger. Different really wanted to Be. Who wouldn't? I opened a chat window on the internet and worked with Different to talk to a friend in Norway. Her name is Line. Some people read that and think it's like a line you draw on a piece of paper. I, Different and I, both feel that we shouldn't let people think that. So don't think that. Think leenah instead. You probably feel a little bit more worldly now. Me, too.

I told Lina about a band that will be playing here soon. We agreed that Shining was pretty good. They have a really different sound. Some people call them jazz or heavy metal or electro. I think they sound like a soundtrack. I even have a good idea about a scene or two they would work well with.

In Brief

2008-08-19T00:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't written about my individual travel experiences for some time now as they seem to have all coalesced into one homogeneous learning experience. I look back now, not on highlights, but rather on the process of becoming something new, something rooted not where my feet meet the ground, but rather where my life meets experience. I look back now and no longer try to dissect who or what got me here.

Sometimes though, the important experiences draw an obvious connection to their end result. As simple as 70 metres of rope between my harness and a new friend's belay device.

The world is our testpiece.

Manali Weather Report

2008-05-16T01:56:00.000-07:00

There are words that we haven't discovered yet
words which archaeologist are still excavating
one of these words is Manali
And the reason I hadn't discovered Manali and the northern (though still sub-Kashmiri) province of Himanchal Pradesh is because I'm a huge idiot for spending too much time in the southern beaches of Goa. Don't, simply don't bother with any part of India but Himanchal Pradesh. There's no point. You're wasting your time, and here's a testament as to why:

After finally succumbing to the heat of Hampi (52 C during the day as you may recall) and acknowledging that I couldn't climb sun baked granite any longer I started my ascent through India. I proposed a quick stop back in Palolem to visit some wanderlusting Norwegians and a rogue Iranian or two before heading north. "Quick stop" quickly turned into "1 week bender" involving a random "4 chicken slaughter" plus "1 drunken palm tree ascent" to steal "5 coconuts." A little wild with the quotation marks there, sorry.

Eventually though I did manage to extricate myself from the beach and the binge and start my epic B-line journey to Himanchal Pradesh and the foothills of the Himalayas. On the way though, a brief stop in Rishikesh, the world capital of yoga and one of the holiest cities in India was due...if only to visit yet another Norwegian, Christian the film student.

Lucky me, I picked up a bit of food-poisoning/hacking-chest-caught-action on the way though. I don't think that it was the 15 hour connection from Madgaon to Mumbai that did it, but it may have been the street food in Mumbai, the dodgy hotel in Mumbai, the 26 hour connection from Mumbai to Delhi, the "sleeping" on the floor of the second class waiting room in the New Delhi Station, the dodgy meal on the train from Delhi to Haridwar, or the train itself and it's overclocked AC. Not sure really.

Rishikesh (through the sickness and surprising heat) wasn't really my scene. I was all geared for relaxing in mountains and seeing a few babas and sadhus kicking about, but what I got was a full on assault of beggars and angry Hindus. Not cool. I don't get it though, most people seem to really love Rishikesh, but it could be that my sick lungs just couldn't take the constant assault of Charas smoke. Perhaps I was just too jaded to really appreciate the magic of the Gangas and I've really crossed off one of the most magical places in India. I don't really know. Hindsight aside, the sack of antibiotics, pain killers, hydrating salts and bowel stabilisers that I picked up from the doctor next to our Ashram cum Guesthouse did put me back in the mood to shoulder my bag again.

So, onward bound, I hopped through a grueling set of connections (including a 2km hike with all my gear, Djembe included) to catch the 3pm overnight (17 hour) public bus from Deradhun (just outside Rishikesh) to Manali. Most people opt for the easy and cheap availability of sleeping pills and/or raw Valium from a local Chemist to get them through a journey like this, but I've never been one for superfluous medicines...I'm tough like that. Tough though I am, I am also a bit of a hypocrite at times and currently have a pocketful of tablets for the next such overnight public bus. May that journey never come.

"Manali" though, that's the topic of this particular blog, and while some people may think that Manali is something you can contract from going barefoot into public bathrooms, I knew it to be the place where three English climbers (whom I had met in Hampi) had been developing some sick bouldering on previously unclimbed rock. It was also the opportunity to escape the manic honking and constant heckling of Charas dealers and shoe polishers of the rest of India.

Refering back to my "steadfast" and "conservative" view on pharmaceuticals wherein I did not take the Valium, I got to enjoy all 17 hours of overnight public bus ride sharing my tiny alloted space with my rucksack, drum and daypack. Cozy though that description may sound, it was more like a drop-in course with a carnival contortionist on speed. And so, from my contorted position I watched as the sun came up to bring life to the villages, rivers, cedars, oaks, rotadehndrons, cherry orchards, wheat fields, wild ganja and of course the snowy peaks of the Himalayas themselves. Completely in awe of my surroundings, I silently congratulated myself for making a good travel decision. I unfolded myself somewhat to pull out my jacket and socks, as I suddenly realised that the temperature was approximately 30 degrees lower than it had been in Rishikesh. It was all feeling a bit like home.

On having abandoned travel guides in the last few months I find that the biggest shortcoming in my travels is arriving at a new place completely disoriented and without even the slightest idea of the layout of my new surroundings. Arriving in Manali was no different, and all I knew of the place was that there was an "Old Manali" and a "New Manali" and that I had just been dropped off in New Manali and that my English climbing friends where in Old Manali and that the ammounts being offered for rickshaws to Old Manali were simply preposterous. I decided to walk. With my gear strapped to my back I was soon directed, and indeed led, by a friendly local carpenter who spoke no more English than the word "Old" as in "Old Manali" which is quite conveniently exactly where he was headed.

After a series of misdirections, largely my own fault, I was having trouble locating my friends and stopped for a chai in hopes that my sleep deprived brain would collect itself fo a few moments and I could remember where the climbers where staying. I noticed that the Dhaba I stopped at, in all its delapitated glory, made fresh momos (the Himalayan version of Gyoza) and I made a point to return later that day for lunch. Eventually the milky, sugary goodness did help me to remember something that sounded like, "anand" which was incidently the name of the guesthouse where my friends were staying. After another kilometre of uphill trudging (and no less than 5 early morning offers for Charas) I did find my friends and sat down, sleepless and unshowered to start immediately discussing the climbing plans for the day.

In the two weeks that the English crew (Richard, Andy and Luke) had been in Manali they had discovered some three or four epic boulders within short walking distance, each offering up at least 5 routes per face, ranging from balancy slab problems to full power, overhanging and almost surreal mixes of slopers, crimps and dynos. It was as though the monkey god Hanuman had designed a little climbing heaven and covered it all in moss and lychen, not to be discovered for many thousands of years. And indeed, it was that moss and lychen that had restricted the climbers to having discovered only a few boulders in the time they had been in Manali, as it just didn't seem logical to spend time cleaning off a single route boulder when a buffet of routes could be cleaned off on any of the larger ones.

A couple of days after arriving and having explored the established rocks, I spent some time alone in search of a new rock to clean and managed to expose a mean granite problem (which remains unsent and inasmuch unnamed) within a few minutes of leaving our initial climbing area, while a family of curious monkeys watched from the bushes. It was the first problem I had pioneered in the area and I at once felt a sense of pride mixed with just a bit of shame for having alterted the natural settings by rasping the moss from the rock. Perhaps the monkeys were simply looking on in discust. Nevertheless, I spent a good couple of minutes happily suspended on the double sloper dead-hang which I assume constitutes the crux of the initial traverse on this boulder. Hanuman's little climbing arena was fast becoming my Shambala.

For the next two weeks the four of us (which eventually became the eight of us as we were joined by fellow Hampi climbers and a couple of tree surgeons) climbed hard, ate momos, enjoyed the natural hotspings in the nearby rival town of Veshisht, and contemplated trekking up to the top ridges of the Valley in search of the distant sillhouettes of boulders we could just make out on the horizon. While other travellers disapeared for days into thick clouds of Israeli chillum produced charas smoke (not that we were particularly adverse to the activity) and bargained over treks into Kashmir, we found ourselves in the serenity of the gogeous montain views and the seemingly unending boulders.

In Manali I at last aquiesced to the fact that I'm a mountain man, not the beach seeking traveller I once thought I was. I finally succumbed to Indian food poisoning and spent a day in bed for a reason other than being hungover. And I learned that the English colloquialism, "innit" is interchangable with the Canadian equivalent, "eh."

The Hampi Times

2008-04-04T22:36:00.000-07:00

I made it! I friggin' made it to Hampi at last!

After two years of drooling over the idea of climbing in Hampi, I've finally arrived. Though, perhaps I came a little late in the season as the average daily temperature is now floating somewhere around 1,009,863 degrees Kelvin. It's rough, and the granite is vicious on the finger tips but I wouldn't trade this for any other boulder I've met so far.

Though I came here for strictly the climbing I've (as traveling randomness will always do) found countless other reasons to stay. For one, I can easily manage a day here on no more than 10 dollars. That, in itself, is enough of a reason to spend a month here. But there's more! Colourful characters are abound in this place; not the least of which is Petrol Baba, a Hindu holy man notorious for his wild consumption of petrol to get high when there aren't enough foreigners to donate hash to him. Last time I saw him he was sporting a mean leg wound (no doubt as a result of some petroleum bender) and was happily borrowing my camera to take some candid shots of my Swiss friend, Dominik and myself climbing a new problem. He also had me pose for a few shots, pointing off in the distance to Monkey Temple, his old pension. His new temple, the Sun Temple is much more humble, and I imagine that it is his new post after he was excommunicated from Monkey Temple for simply being too damn crazy.

Today he invited us up to Monkey Temple for the "annual Baba reunion" where we would be welcome to join countless Chillums (Indian hash pipes that require a certain dexterity to smoke) and probably some completely inane discussion of Shiva's return to this physical plane (I've had a few such Baba times).

More importantly though is the rock here. Sweet mother of Ganesh these rocks are mad! Everything here is stable granite boulders, some big, some small and most of them precariously perched atop one another. My poor fingertips and toe knuckles have had their share of the composite crystal and I'm afraid that I'll have to take a day or two off. Too bad there's no way that will ever happen, as I've just made plans to solo a 20 metre tower/chimney/dodgyfest and camp on the top for two days with Dominik before he heads off to Kathmandu. We'll need alot of sandwiches, I think...

In the off hours (the "on hours" are 6am to 10am and 4pm to 7pm, when the temperature drops enough to actually step out of the shade) we all post up in Shanthi Guesthouse make our way through the epic menu. So far I've managed to sample the entire Indian menu...twice. Next up is Israeli cuisine, and then perhaps Mexican. Why they have Mexican options on the menu, I really don't know...although I did meet on Mexican here.

Welcome David, the holistic Mexican healer from Arizona. Just the other day he introduced me to some inane crystal health reading machines (which you can make yourself by wrapping a copper wire around a quartz crystal and arbitrarily connecting it to an array of dials, lights and switches). I'm pretty sure that I saw one of these on the South Park episode about Scientology...

He did however, make me up a mean batch of colloidal silver and spash some lavender oil on my newest climbing wounds. For this I am thankful...for the 2 hour conversation I entertained about space-time-travel-retro-brain-wave-energy-healing with him, I am not.

So yeah, come to Hampi...the monkeys don't bite, but the buffalo that chased us for half a kilometre because she wanted to gore our crash pad and forced us to speed climb a rock to hide in safety may be a small deterrent for some n00b travelers.

A Short Tale Of Interesting Folk

2008-03-16T04:11:00.000-07:00

I sincerely apologise for the blatant lack of effort I've been putting into this blog. I'm a douchepickle, I know, but please understand that at a topical level, Iran was very dull, polluted and generally uninviting. For these reasons I have been really struggling to put together an entry about why I did actually enjoy my time there so much. Was it drinking illegally homemade wine in a ski lift? Was it haggling over a carpet after a few too many tokes? Or was it hand drums in the desert? I'm not really sure yet, and that's why this post has absolutely nothing to do with Iran.

Rather, this is about India, and a fellow named Duncan.

Walking back to my beach hut at about 1am the other night, I came across a not-so-unusual gathering of hippies around a bonfire, setting up djembes and poy. Why not join them, I thought, there's bound to be someone worth talking to at this gathering. And indeed, after exhausting my interest in a pair of rather ambitious 19 year-old Swedish guys (working in an orphanage outside of Pune, India, but on vacation for a few days here in Goa), my conversation turned to the attention of Duncan.

The rudimentary details of travel conversation where gone through, valiantly seeking something that could ignite some alternate topic, and we found it, right at the question, "so where are you from?"

Duncan, as it was revealed, had once lived in The States, but had been somehow deported and stripped of his citizenship after being caught with some 30kg of marijuana. Hard to argue, "personal use" with that quantity or drugs, I'm sure. He had moved to Bombay at the time, and with nothing in his pockets, lived on the streets for the last 3 years...or so...he had kind of lost count.

Being given the gift of street-life and the meditative state is can sometimes bring in the everyday quest for a few rupees to survive on, Duncan's mind had spend numerous hours contemplating peaceful and soul-fulfilling topics like, "vendetta," "guerrilla militia," and "pornography racketeering". But as much as he was telling me about this, he was still remaining quite cryptic about the whole process. Fortunately, he was one of those people ruled by their ego...perhaps even a bit of a narcissist, and I took advantage of this to learn more.

From what I could discern (not that there was a language barrier...he speaks perfect English...I just found this all a little overwhelming) this is his plan:

After feeling a bit of regret for burning his Indian passport and only source of indisputable identification, Duncan decided to take it out of "The Man" but convincing a sizable force of armed militants to "pledge their lives to [him]" under the pretext that "it's for the good of mankind". He would then station these outside an unspecified embassy for which his has a list of relevant officials which may or may not be able to supply him with a diplomatic passport. Once he found the one with this capacity he would enter a game of blackmail, which is apparently much easier to do that I had ever imagined...in truth I was feeling a little enlightened, to encourage a trade for said passport.

I know that there was more to his plan after getting the passport...and I'm pretty sure it involved porn, but at this time I was still trying to process the feasibility of Duncan's plan in relation and/or contrast to just how crazy he was/was not. I walked home that night sorting the variable out in my head...but I needed to talk to him again to really get it going.

A few days later I headed into the jungle to a place called Banyan Tree. It's a hippie hideout managed by some old Italian expat who has apparently reached enlightenment. Mostly I just think he's baked out of his gourd all day on cheap local hash...but having been up there for 4 years I do have to give him some credit. I knew that Duncan was staying up near the tree, and trudged in, braving the wall of mosquitoes I walked into to meet with him.

After a kilometre or so of hiking I heard a distant, "hello, Kaare, come in!" and somewhere down the hill toward the river was Duncan, in his remarkably comfortable tree nook he had established for himself. This time there was a mud covered Swedish hippie with a didgeridoo made of PVC piping sitting around to join the conversation, and together we grilled Duncan on his plans:

Swedish Guy (Anton): So, do you carry that sleeping mat with you everywhere? Why don't you just leave it here where you sleep?
Ducan: Well, I'm a little bit worried about theft, but also it's rifle simulation. I know that there are dark times ahead, so i just need to get in the mindset of always carrying my rifle with me, you know?
...
Kaare: Is that an old keyboard in your backpack?
Duncan: Oh yeah man, it's just like how the old Samurais would train with wooden swords that they carried everywhere. I always keep a broken keyboard with me so that I can just meditate with it and be in the zone...so that when it's time I'll be able to just hack right in, yeah?

...and so on...

Duncan also shared a crumpled old picture of his computer setup at home in The US which involved some 15 monitors. Apparently, by doing a combination of LSD and MDMA, Duncan (who goes by the hanger, "Zero Cool" by the way) was able to attain the same state of mind as those who invented our modern ideas of hardware and software and just dive in to any part of the hacker's realm he desired. This, of course, was because it was college kids on LSD that invented computers. Of course.

Göreme

2008-01-27T09:02:00.001-08:00

We walked under a moon
painfully bright
leaving footsteps where before
there were none
only the
track
of
animals
we knew to have long frozen to death
and here we stopped
made fire
under a rock spire where
1000s of years ago
Christians made their homes
straight into stone
we drank wine
and were at peace with this world

this is not poetry

2008-01-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

I stepped outside a little bit late
so me and my Chesterfield
watched the city lights
burn away the smog
while the rooftops
and smokestacks set into the night

Communism and Tits

2007-12-30T04:05:00.000-08:00

I'm going to start completely off topic here and just outright tell you all that I bought the Canon 20mm f2.8 ultrasonic lens. Now stop touching yourself in naughty ways while you think about it and read the rest of my blog.
Marty and Deanna where kind enough to drive us all the way from Brussels, Belgium to Krefeld Germany. Angie and I were kind enough to sleep the whole way...giving them some "alone time". We're nice like that.

Krefeld ended up being incredibly dodgy, or at least the area around the car park was. We had fun finding a staircase out of the basement that wasn't inhabited by semi-dead heroin users and eventually made it to the street by walking back the way that we drove in. At street level we came to the conclusion (judging by the general populace and their vacant eyed state) that we had, in fact, arrived at the heart of the Zombie apocalypse. Later we would discover that they were just Russian immigrants...not all that different really.

Since we had arrived earlier than we had planned, we decided to take the opportunity to search out a restaurant for lunch. MoneyPenny (the onboard GPS system in the BMW) had informed us that there was a nice place just around the corner from where we parked. This was a complete lie and instead we got lost in a town with nothing open. Eventually we found something that resembled a restaurant, but when Marty stuck his head in to check he got stared down by a bunch of scary old German men who had clearly been drinking since 8am. We proceeded to the Cafe & Bar Celona (witty name) for Schnitzel.

A few hours later and it was 2pm, time to meet up with my German friends, Olaf and Vicky. We found their flat without too much trouble and I got a big happy German hug which, in no way, smelled like Sauerkraut as I expected it to. We were introduced then to another artist's apartment, similar to our friends in Finland, but substantially more 60's influenced (as they are both Mods) and with fun slippery wooden floors. Olaf showed us some fun tricks for sliding across the entire length of the hallway. I fell down.

After some catching up, Olaf and Vicky piled us into their car to head to the nearby city of Duisburg, a factory city with some sort of amusement factory light show thing.

Wait, I have to describe the "car." This vehicle, as Olaf described it, is more of a philosophy than a car. With only 29 horsepower, I can begin to understand where he was coming from. Driving on the Autobahn at it's top speed of 100km/hr it seems to float, more or less, in the general direction where you point it. This floating requires constant attention to a complex array of knobs, dials, and switches, which I imagine without care, could lead to a complete loss of control and certain death as the car is no bigger than the 4 passengers it maintains. There is also a panel of unmarked lights which sporadically flash and flutter as the car seems to make an attempt to communicate with its limited vocabulary. It's all rather like Flight of the Navigator...but much more terrifying.

Somehow Angie managed to peacefully sleep through this whole proceeding as though she was being craddled in the arms of safety. I had been on those suicide buses in the sub-continent of India where drivers enjoy a mortality rate approximately on par with military convoy drivers, and felt no fear. But in this vehicle, this French "thing" which was commissioned to "travel on French country roads with a backseat full of eggs and milk and not break either the product, or the driver's bank, kept me awake like a nose-full of speed.

It did, however, successfully bring us to our destination and, admittedly, it was well worth the risk. Duisburg has prematurely begun to preserve its history. Here, they have closed off an old steel factory and adorned it with all sorts and arrays of neon lights. It's kind of like being on the set of a Zombie movie shoot. Here's an example of what a Zombie movie might be like there...

You may notice that anything said in German sounds like a Zombie hungry for brains...

After watching the sun set from the top of the slag furnace, we headed off back to the suicide car. Somehow we got lost on the way though, and discovered a visage of that stereotypical Germany factory that we all know. Walking around at night, aided in some places with placards of old photos, we were really able to capture the feeling of working a shit factory job. For those of your who are metallurgists out there, be thankful that these poor slobs managed to prove that automated operation of a steel factory is more efficient that burning off the soles of your feet on hot slag.

A quick drive and we were back in Krefeld with the night still ahead of us. Olaf, Vicky, Angie, a new friend Jo, and myself all piled into a cab and booked it to a local rock bar. Here we learned the joys of various beers, musics, and local youth. I also discovered that walking into the sharp edge of a bathroom door will:
a) solicit a surprising amount of blood
b) promote the purchasing of free beer from the nice fellow who threw the door open into your face, and...
c) give you a concussion that will keep you bed ridden the next day.

I'm just hoping that it scars well enough that I will have a proper souvenir from this place.

Somehow, despite the head wound, heavy beer consumption (you will remember that beer is my enemy as it poisons me in ways that other alcohols cannot compare) Olaf and I managed to stay up until some ungodly hour on YouTube, laughing at the folly of those bamboozled by Sasha Cohen's gay Austrian Hairdressing character, Bruno. Oh, Bruno, those homophobes are such a neich neich.

Language Barriers and Gaps In Civility

2007-12-25T06:39:00.000-08:00

Europe can be an expensive place to travel. This is especially true if you end up spending twice the time you anticipated...and neglected to bring your fake student ID (everything here is 30 - 50% off if you can prove you're a student...even food). Having generous family rent a car for 2 weeks to drive your around though, is substantially more economical. Here follows a road trip.

The drive there...and other places...and back:
Don't remember alot of it...as I slept through all the driving bit.

The locations!
Brugges, Belgium:
The first stop on a multi-day tour of the surrounding environ, Brugges proved to be the most beautiful location of the bunch (at least until we hit Bouillon on the way back from Paris...but I'll get to that).

We arrived just as the sun was gaining over the sea of red tile rooftops and made a direct line for the belfry of the nearest chapel. From our new vantage we watched the fog burn away and the beautifully preserved European heritage of Brugges slowly emerge. Behind us we appreciated the complex machinery that drove the massive clock and array of some 50 bells. The thought then struck us that, perhaps, the belfry wasn't the best place to "hang out" when said bells started to ring...we realised this at about noon, perhaps a little late; and so Brugges was enjoyed through a Cochlea shattering static for the remainder of the day.

Sometime after the static cleared (about when the sun started to set) we headed out for the infamous Brugges ice festival. I was feeling a bit skeptical about the event, since I assumed it was a just kiddie amusement park of carved ice monsters. Though this notion was quickly confirmed I finally came to realise that I'm just a kid at heart anyway. I honestly loved the Ice Festival, especially so when I discovered that the ice slide ended at the bar.

Aachen, Germany:
It was foretold that Aachen had the "most famous Christmas market in Germany" and so we packed ourselves into our tiny BMW with pockets anxiously bulging with Euros to spend. Unfortunately, thought it may have been the best in Germany, it fell well short of our expectations after having spent some evenings in Brussles market.

After a run through a museum that apparently boasted some clothes that Christ wore and stuff we headed off to find some wieners. Germany is famous for wieners, in case you didn't know. Anyway, we got to this wiener stand and ordered a Bratwurst (Brat Wiener) and asked if we could have some saurkraut (cabbage stuff to put on wieners) on our wieners. This upset the WienerMan and the following dialogue ensued:

Kaare&Marty: Um...do you have Saurkraut?
WienerMan: ...NO!
Kaare&Marty: Oh, um, like, we''ll pay extra for it...we just want some on our Bratwurst.
WienerMan(Nazi): No can have Saurkraut! Too cold! Maybe summer have HotDog Saurkrauten. Nein Saurkrauten!!!! *shakes wet hotdog from chaffing dish at us.
Kaare&Marty: *retreat.

Maybe we just went to the wrong wiener stand though. There's a good chance that we would have had more success at this one:

(wiener suit man)

Paris, France: So, embarrassing confession, it actually took the Eiffel Tower to really drive home that I was away from home. I had been trying so hard not to be a tourist that it really took the might of that ever-present tourism symbol to bring out the spirit of European romance for me. Of course, being on top of the tower looking down on the foggy city at night with no-one to romantically appreciate it with also made clear my distance from home. I guess I miss some people... We were fortunate enough to have an apartment from which we could drink wine, smoke French cigarettes and see the tower all night though, as it slowly desensitised us to "all that romance."

Paris though... Paris is.... Paris is WOW. That's the best I can do to describe it. Even in the dregs of winter it proved beautiful; and thanks to a recent campaign by the government, friendly as well. How could it not be though? The excesses that royalty took with this country promise that it will be breathtaking to even the most desensitised of backpackers and aristocrats. Versailles is big enough to house the entire population of Canada, the Louvre is big enough to house several Versailles, and the Parisian ego is big enough to swallow it all.

I love Paris.

Eventually though (and by that I mean last minute, Christmas Eve), we had to head back for Belgium. This wasn't particularly a sad thing, as we've all come to love Brussels, but it was a bit something to leave the City of Romance. At least our feet were appreciative of the break from all the walking.

On the way back though, Marty took us on a detour to Boullion, Belgium.

Boullion, Belgium:
Boullion stands on the border of France and Belgium, in the axis of three intersecting valleys. It was originally started as something of a military stronghold since all maurading parties would have to push through this basin to get past. In true medieval fashion, they built a big badass castle in the middle to maintain their position. This castle was so well built that it's still standing there today...relatively unscathed, even after being used as headquarters during WWII.

There wasn't alot in the way of adventure worthy activities here, especially considering that everything was shutting down for Christmas. The castle was still open though so we did get an opportunity to properly explore it. After a thorough tour I feel confident saying that "living in a castle would really, really suck" It's cold, it leaks, and if you screw around with the boss, there's a legit dungeon in the basement carved out of bedrock with only one way in, an 8m drop. Sucks to living in a castle.

...

Anyway, Christmas was great. Everyone who missed out on a European Christmas...well, I'm sure that yours was at least adequate.

Christmas Magic Stuff

2007-12-17T07:34:00.000-08:00

Melancholy Emo Entry:
I feel that I've lost that Christmas spirit. But I suppose that we all do over time. The magic of St. Nicholas, the smell of PineScent© on your family's fake tree, bobbles; all exhausted symbols of your childhood. Really, what magic is there in this season anymore, especially for the atheist?

Brussels, Belgium, 2007 Entry:
Christmas ****in' RULES!

After walking into a cold, dark and desolate, cobblestone floored town square (Grand Place) we began to wonder if we had made the trip here in vain. Temperatures had now dipped below 0 Celsius and it seemed that things were shutting down. Perhaps that woman on the plane here had been correct about this city; a political miasma with nothing beautiful to offer. Fortunately, she was just a dumb broad and didn't know what the hell she was talking about...

From behind we heard a horse drawn carriage bumping over the cobblestones into the square. The whole group turned simultaneously, searching for it's source. A 20,000 Watt stereo system proved to be it, and the sounds emanating from it quickly transformed into an epic opera, so powerful that we nearly had to shout to hear one another. I suppose that we could have moved away from the speakers a bit to rectify this. But we were spellbound.

Suddenly the main tower of Grand Place began pulsing with light. Some 8 stories of pre-Victorian architecture, previously hidden in the shadows yielded its secrets. No less than a gajillion multi-coloured Christmas lights, projectors, spotlights and indoor lamps danced along with the haunting tones of classical opera (well, it was actually the opera from that scene in the 5th Element). A massive spruce, previously no more than a basic Christmas tree, joined in; its lights moving in such it way it began to resembled a massive, landlocked anemone. Angie was likely terrified by this.

Numb from the cold and smiling like an E-tard, We were entirely swept up in that old Christmas spirit.

I couldn't have hoped for more, but more came! We carried on, perhaps moving just to stay warm, perhaps drawn by the wafting scent of gluhwine (mulled wine), I'm not sure. Through the Christmas night market with friend's and family, past a five piece brass band of Santa Clauses, through alleys filled with the smell of waffles and fresh doughnuts, around skating rinks and escargot stands. This was a Christmas dream! Even the creepy carousel and inflated 45m long monster thing were magical (in a ghost of Christmas future, where dinosaurs come back, kind of way...).

Belgium has restored my faith in the holiday season. Not working a retail job this time has probably helped, too.

An Ecercise in Sleep Deprevation

2007-12-08T15:01:00.000-08:00

I apologise for the severe lack of bloggery over the last few weeks, but every time I tried to make an entry I would get about two paragraphs in and realise that I was either writing erotica or a Tom Clancy plot line. I think I'm past that now. Here's a back dated entry...

Ryan Air, the love of my life; yellow and cramped like an airborne discount bin overflowing with merchandise. Mismatched with the stumbling subtitles of all those European tongues. As cheap and as safe as a $0.25 hooker. You just get the job done.

After neglecting (actually, we've never obeyed it since its initial purchase) the alarm clock yet again, we woke up on the floor of Jessica and Jan's apartment for the last time...at 1:00pm. This wasn't particularly dire since, ever though our flight was in Tampere (a city over 2 hours away) we had until 10pm to get there. So, we spent the afternoon raiding our good hosts' friedge and reading from their ample comic book collection.

Eventually we gathered the energy to clean the kitchen, pack up, and go. We proceeded directly(with the utmost confidence) to the wrong tram line and quickly found ourselves lost, alone and in the dark. Not a problem though, as our trusty map directed us from one street (simply named, hutnikaaskylsanuomi (sp?)) to another and eventually to the train station. A cute Finnish girl even stopped to help us...they're just so friendly!

At the train station in Tampere, while in limbo for the transit to the airport, we had an encounter with an odd little troll-man. Ah, how authentic, I thought, those stories of Trolls and Gnomes my Scandinavian grandmother used to read me were not all fable! Soberingly though, he turned out to be a drunken American activist. This was difficult to discern at first, since, in an attempt to ask us where the RyanAir transit would stop, he used some combination of languages which we should henceforth refer to as Slavbalticfinicelandicgermanican (to expound that, "Slavic-Baltic-Finnish-Icelandic-Germanic-American-Tainttongue").

Apparently, he was some lifetime anarchist who never got the point (not even after he started to lose his hair) and fed-up with America's lack of desire to convert to a commune and that his home, New Orleans, got a bit wet, decided to move to Europe to work illegally. In a short period of time we comprised the story of his 2 years past as a European tour not better described than by the term "dodgy."

We spent the next few hours trying to avoid his bizzare attempts at conversation and were nearly successful when he caused a ruckus in airport security via a heated argument with a Russian model that he no doubt outed for looking "less than not slutty". Eventually we found our seats on the plane and I settled in to read a great book which I then would forget on the plane 3 hours later.

After disembarking from the plane, we hurried to beat the line to customs. In true British fashion though, customs was a good 3km from the plane and involved navigating a labyrinth of depressing corridors, elevators, and appropriate elevator musak. Following this, we were shuttled along an underground tram system that looked as though it was built around the model of so many nuclear testing facilities. Angie discovered that the seats were lined with something that felt like 1000s of hypodermic needles pointed upward.

About 30 minutes later we arrived at British Border Control, a place normally populated with vicious hose-beasts. This time, however, we were offered passage by a surprisingly nice (and even pretty, which is highly unusual for Britain) blonde, 20-something. Moments before approaching the gate though, our American "friend" caught up with us in the queue.

"Do I have to tell them you're lying to get ahead of me or what?" he offered.

I very nearly bludgeoned him to death with my Nalgene bottle, It was fortunate for him that a very proper British signpost cautioned against such things. God save the queen, for she saved this poor soul.

Now 2am Finnish time, or 12am UK time, and a long damn time past bed time either way, we scored return tickets to Oxford on a National Express Coach.

The goal: Hang out with my old flatmate from China, Nick.

The challenge: Try to sleep on a British coach for the next 4 hours.

The obstacles obstructing said goal: The deceptively torturous seats that adorn National Express Coach Lines. Picture a torture device where you have to balance you tail bone and associated anatomy on a crowsnest of rebar neatly presented as a "luxury" seat. Said "luxury" seat is also wrapped in something that resembles leather and promotes the same pooling of sweat about your bottom as would leather. Further details include a driver mumbling incoherently, in a Northerner accent, the names of each stop in a city you've never been to, nor have a map of.

By 4am, we had finally arrived in Oxford. This gave us ample time to kill, walking around the city, trying to find a doorway to curl up in a take a nap. In our delirious, sleep deprived state, we soon found ourselves lost somewhere between a castle and a river, neither of which we could sleep in. Fortunately we found a crackhead mumbling to himself to offer us directions.

Finally, after wandering around for an hour or so with 20kg of baggage each, we found our bus terminal again and collapsed under an overhang to wait out the opening of the nearest source of coffee.

...

At the point of originally writing this I had been up for about 20 hours. I would be up for another 17 after that before actually getting any sleep. Somewhere in there my friend's dad showed me a hand cranked pipe organ thingy that blew my friggin' mind. I also ate a Kebab.

...

Hm...my notes in my journal here on my lap say something about "Mario Testino" I think that he's a portrait photographer. Scope him out if you get a chance. I just did, and it was great.

Helsinki Journal Entry

2007-11-25T05:28:00.000-08:00

Journal Entry;
Nov 20th, 2007,
Helsinki, Finland:

Dear The Horse,

I ate you.

The End.

-Kaare

Hungry, Hungry Hungarians

2007-11-19T05:57:00.000-08:00

Backtrack to Nov 15th...

I woke up this morning to the stiffled tears of our Hungarian friend Anita. Her brother, Szabi, had gone off early to return in time for a lecture in Klaipeda and she didn't get a chance to say goodbye (no doubt this was a result of staying up until 6am drinking cheep beer in the reception lounge). She tried to tell me that she was just being emotional because of her hangover, but after spending the last few days with them I knew it was more than that.

Being siblings, they had always enjoyed their rivalries, but on this trip they had finally realised that they were perhaps closer to best-friends than just brother and sister. Inasmuch, she was devestated by his sudden departure.

...........................................................................

Last night, over Caipirinhas in a Cuban Raggae bar in Latvia, Angie and I were regaled with sincere invites to "...be housed in [their] home in Budapest, Hungary!" Once this invite was further illustrated to include details on how we would have to stay for "at least a week," be privately squired about the city on a historical (and judging by the tears in their eyes, emotionally patriotic) tour by the dramatic Szabi, and spend long nights watching movies and smoking Shisha in their appartment, we were ever more inclined to take advantage.

It would appear that we had met the most generous duo in Europe. Even if it had not been for their generosity though, I think we would have been tempted to further stalk them just for more samples of Szabi's flare with the English language. While Anita spent a number of years in California and speaks fluent American English, Szabi is still trudging his way through the language with a certain flourish unlike any other...

Example 1.
Szabi: "Is this fish rude?"
Angie: "No, but it is raw."
Szabi: "Ahhh, so this American here is raw!"
Kaare: "Rude, not raw, Szabi..."

Example 2.
* on the subject of musical covers...
Szabi: "Yes, and Tom Petty also sang that song Anal Sunshine"
Group: *silence...

Body Hair Update

2007-11-15T08:45:00.000-08:00

Head:

I've finally decided to stop using soap in my hair. I'm on day 4 right now and I have to say, "ew". It's effin' disgusting and I don't think that those of Italian decent are genetically capable ... or allowed to do this. So I'm living by this credo:

Save a baby cow,
Use the grease on your head to butter your bread!

Delicious.

Beard:

Uncut for three weeks now, this is a new record for me. It's gross, and I have to wipe food out of it on a regular basis. I can't eat the local stroganoff because it's too soupy and it gets stuck for indefinite periods of time.

I have to comb it.

I'm a nordic hero.

Zen & The Art of Stealing a Drum

2007-11-11T07:25:00.000-08:00

Alright, so here's the blog that basically conclude's Angie's last entry.

As you well know, we spent the beginning of last night hanging out in our hostel dorm getting to know a Hungarian brother and sister named Anita and Sabi (his name is actually "Saboich"...but I don't want to commit to that spelling) and an Australian fellow named Shane. Our conversation had turned to something completely morbid and uterly disturbing about serial killers, properly commiting suicide, and a story about some American in the late 1800's that lured tourists to his "house of horrors" where he actually murdered them en masse with acid vats, lion dens, spike pits, etc (I have yet to find anything about this on the interweb)... It was about this point that we decided to go out for dinner (which in Eastern Europe always leads to ruthless intoxication).

We started off at some University bar, where the only table was amidst a huge crowd of students attending some sort of Lithu-African drum party. We were absolutely surrounded by thin, Eastern European girls gorging themselves on beer towers and fried bread, heavy browed Russian brutes delicately nibbling at salads and an entorage or obese Lithuanians dressed in gaudy African regalia beating an assortment of hand-drums. General absurdidty ensued, during which much beer was consumed, ample servings of nearly everything on the menu devoured, and the bill was eventually settled with no-ones tab being over $10.00CAN. Awesome.

It must have been that the group was some sort of student enthnic submersion project as there was an organised audience participation component where maracas (made of beer cans filled with rock salt...so Eastern European) and cheap Djembes were liberally distributed amongst the crowd.

Inevitably, we ended up with one such drum on our table, and after discovering that I'm an absolutely brilliant hand drummer it was well received that we should probably steal the drum. In fairness, I did voice a contrary moral opinion, but it was quickly shot down by the Hungarians. Fair enough, I now had a drum.

Out to the streets we headed, an air of confident possesion of our new instrument high on our faces. We pushed through crowds or writhing, drunk, horny college students without much contestion but at the door, one of the enormous, Soviet monsters guarding the door reached out in front of me. I pushed forward, confident that if I ignored him he wouldn't stop me...this drum was mine after all. There was a definite moment of tension with all participant theives and then, "BAM" the doorman just struck a beat on the drum and smiled. Well, what else to do but lay out a Djembe dance party?

We stepped out into the first snow we've seen this year and started a full out tribal dance / drum show which was liberally participated in by all the smokers freezing their asses off out front. Even the doormen started to move with the beat...though they looked rather like albino gorillas trying to avoid stepping on the cold ground. Well enough.

So here we were, 5 beautiful foreigners dancing off down the snow-covered cobblestone, hurling snowballs and stringing the random English adverts we passed into some semblence of a song: "megaSpeak Razr love time good good cozy bar sexy tan!"

And then back to that notorious bar, Ibysh, where we found our old friend Mantas and kept him stuck behind the bar until 6am. At one point Angie was leaned drunkenly over the bar taking uninvited photos of Mantas for a full 5 minutes. I've seen these photos...he was clearly not impressed, but then it was his fault for feeding her triple Camparis.

*stumble, stumble, stumble

1:30pm rolls around and we find ourselves in a rather rough state. Angie is still decidedly drunk, and the two Hungarians look like someone is routinely bouncing a hammer off their skulls...I however, came out unscathed from the whole ordeal and corralled us into a pancake Sunday "brunch".

Here we stayed, gorging ourselves on all sorts of crepes and deserts for a full 2 hours. Before we finally packed up for the day (at this point, about 4:30pm) Sabi made a point of stealing the absurdly small salt shaker.

Note of advice: Do not call Hungarians, "Gypsies" This is not a funny joke to them, and I very nearly lost two new friends over it. Let them take as they will, and never, ever call them Gypsies!

Poland Is a Liquor Store

2007-11-06T11:43:00.000-08:00

Well, this is me, happily situated at my hostel computer with a beer the size of 2 newborn children...fat ones.

UPDATES:
My beard: glorious
My belly: full of kebab
The Weather: snowing
My Hair: greasy / unwashed
My Experiences Thus Far: heartbreaking at times, elevating at others
My Love Life: null
My Life: apart from the aforementioned "null" excellent

Things have been carrying on rather excellently of late and here is why:

I realise that my favourite part of traveling (other that meeting and learning from strange new individuals) is the hardships. For instance, today we arrived in Warsaw without a hostel booked. It was raining / snowing / sleeting all at once. Despising the Polish phone system (which is actually quite good) we decided to walk to the nearest...that's not true...cheapest hostel in the vicinity. It was full up except for a triple bunk room costing 55 zloty a night (about $22.50 Canadian); scoffing at this price after walking up 10 flights of stairs we headed out to Oki Doki Hostel in hopes of a room (here they were only 50 zloty...a steal!), but found that this was impossible as there was no vaccancy. We then had them book a hostel for us at Nathan's Villa, and conquoring our fear of the Gypies associated with this name, we packed up and walked another 3km there...only to pay 55 zloty each for the night anyway.

Awesome.

Following this, we met some "interesting individuals"; among these a PHD potential named Mike. Mike is American, weighs 210lbs, plays rugby, is covered in tattoos and speaks fluent Russian. He learned Russian so that he could become cozy with Eastern political refugees in order to interview them to collect data for his disertation on the migratory patterns and theories of political extremists. Mike is awesome. Also, during the several seconds it took to ascertain this profile of Mike, he drank no fewer than 32 tall-cans of extra strong Polish beer. We love Mike. He has a cute little sniffle and sounds nasaly.

We then found ourselves caught in the crossfire of a debate over where the best Kebab was in town. After 30 minutes of heated debate (including a break by one defendant to sample some cottage cheese) we learned that we simply had to cross the street.

At last we arrive moments before this blog, wherein we discussed the culture and Slavic/Baltic/Anglo/Germanic/Soviet history of Poland, at last learning how to pronounce, "Bydgoszcz," the city in which we had originally landed in to gain access to this country of Poland.

"y" is, in fact, a soft "i"; "d" is more or less pointless, "sz" is a hard "sh"; and "cz" is a hard "ch". In conclusion, we could have effectively saved ourselves alot of time by simply calling the place, "By Gosh!"

D-D-D-Depeche Mode

2007-11-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

To start (and this is really out of context, but I can't contain myself), there's an absynthe bar next door to this hostel from which I am blogging. 'Nuff said.

Back on topic though, when we head to Estonia in the next couple of weeks we'll be bunkering down in a city that's famous for...blah blah blah...I don't really give a shit. The important thing about Estonia is this:

It has a pub called Depeche Mode Baar.

I give, I don't care about any other part of Europe...all I want to do is fly straight to Estonia and spend a week getting polluted at Depeche Mode Baar. I know that you're probably reading this in silence, but SHUT UP FOR A SECOND...EVERY DRINK IN THIS BAR IS NAMED AFTER DEPECHE MODE SONGS AND...yes you guessed it...ALL THEY PLAY IS DEPECHE MODE!!!!!!!!!.

Canada is sooooooo gay compared to Depeche Mode Baar

*Angie and I fought over who got to blog about this...I let her take over for the actual experience blog...this is just a teaser.

Poland...wtf

2007-11-02T06:14:00.000-07:00

So here we are...Poland. For some reason we deemed this to be the gateway to Eastern Europe and jumped the Extra-Foods coloured Ryanair jetline to get here. Granted it is a slight imporovement on the dreary dregs of England; where I realised that Wallace and Grommit was so accurate an approximation that visiting the place itself was almost superfluous.

Landing in Poland was at first beautiful (in no way un-aided by the bounty of super-model gorgeous women here) and then absolutely bloody terrifying. I won't go into much more detail as you will be able to read further on the landscape through Angie's blog.

Here's something that Angie skipped over though: Perogies.

Holy-good-goddamn, I don't understand how, in The Land of Starch & Delicious Lard these women manage to stay so fit. Granted the men seem to succumb to it once over the age of 25, but the women...goddamn.

Enough of this though. I'm going to go figure out how to operate a Karta Telephonyczana.

Reflections

2007-10-31T13:52:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last few days in London pondering the value and purpose of travel. I think, now having sleepily meditated on the subject on the bus to Stansted, that travel is much like looking for love. Inasmuch, I find myself reflecting on past travels and what I discovered in them, I remember now that I started my career of travel by approaching places which I knew nothing of, and therein had no preconceived notions of. I used to leave the travel guides closed until I arrived.

But yes, travel is much like searching for love; you never really know where or with whom you will find it, yet you search. So, I keep launching myself from town to town, country to country in the hopes that I will discover something I love, something that will change me, add to me.

...

London is not one of these places.

SNAKBITE!

2007-10-31T13:42:00.000-07:00

dear blogspopt
SNAKEBITE!
1/2 pint cider (maybe strongbow...i dunno)
1/2 pint ale (something nasty... india Pale Ale works)
1 shot creme de cassis
fit this magic into a pint glass (or 10) and swallow
=
you win!

Oct 28th ... Early ... GMT

2007-10-29T04:40:00.000-07:00

In any other culture the man across from me would be revered as a god.

I watch him manage his meal, a morsel to him. His hands engulf it, and with the patience of the Old Testament's 7 days creation, he guilds plastic fork and plastic knife through roast beef.. I am brought to think of the mechanics of his joints; forged no doubt, in the depths of Gaia, herself. I picture these bones operating deep within as he stares down on the fat American a row ahead.

"Your decadence is the oil greasing the gears of poverty, " he booms, now casually munching on his under-seat life jacket.

He yawns, stretching like some colossal cat-deity and I stifle myself, nearly yelling, "stop!"; for a moment I feared the chance that, at 30 000" cruising altitude he had the opportunity to punch through the fuselage, the sky, the fabric of space and strangle the moon for so casually accepting the praise of so many pagan women. Perhaps he loins have grown restless. No herd of women could hope to sate his nethers.

But instead he reaches down, removes a leather bound book from below his seat and glides pen on paper in this journal the size of all my luggage for the next two years. Pages fly by. The header, "Day 20" has disappeared some hours ago. Left handed, he pours over these that will become the manuscripts of future worshippers.

Day 20, 11:15 ...
The Gospel of the Travelling Avatar.

End, Day 1

Working Fast

2007-10-19T09:01:00.000-07:00

there's a count down counting out my last days here
it's clicking and notching it's way forward
stripping off the threads behind it
leaving only the shaky words,
"In the morning this will all be gone..."

and I tell you these as though it will be some bandage
over the wound left after the hook in your heart
pulls taught the string strung to my jetplane window
seat 18a, economy
with optional emergency exit back to you
should i so choose
to pull the latch
leave the oxygen mask
and jump

but my fears compound
and the ground that accommodates my
impact
smacks me back to reality
knowing that
were i revived
were the doctors to put the pieces of me back together
they'd find
when they put that stethoscope to my chest
nothing but static
just the crackle and fuzz
of a robot's heart gone wrong

like if the the tin man ate
the lion ate
the scarecrow
ate the mystery behind our fantasy
and left us wondering where we came from in the first place
with nowhere to go

just the crackle and fuzz and die
my bits splattered flat on the asphalt...

or

your whole heart pulled clean out of your ribcage...
this choice
I made,
and yeah it hurts
but you and i know damn well,
"In the morning this will all be gone..."

First Poem in a Year?

2007-09-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

oh, these early morning people
bright eyed
unnaturally alert
we watch them walk
into the sunrise
which paints around them
that golden aura
oh, their edges glow
hot metal
molten still from the plasma torch
as though God just cut them
fresh from the block
and joints still stiff
one leg at least
in that frozen

sleepy

...rigamortis

nerdcore blog

2007-08-28T08:55:00.000-07:00

This is the story of a two column layout, one fixed width, one width:auto. This is the story of how IE6's 3px jog around floating elements nearly killed me. This is the the story about how I defeated it.

Nerdcore.

Here's the basic HTML of my layout:

header
leftcol
content

(sorry about the lack of html there, blogger kept rendering the divs)

And here's the basic CSS (before the fix):

#header {
margin:0px;
padding:10px;
}
#leftcol {
width:180px;
float:left;
padding:0px;
}
#content {
width:auto;
padding:0px;
padding-left:180px;
}

Pretty standard...and not at all an issue in any browser by IE6, because of that damned 3px jog effect around floating elements. With fixed width elements it's not a problem to apply little fixes like margin-whatever:-3px; etc... but we have an auto width element here that's causing headaches.

So here's a solution.

Pretty simple really.

I changed the float on the left hand column to this:

#leftcol {
width:180px;
position:absolute:
top:auto;
left:0px;
}

I didn't think that it would work since the absolute positioned element is kind of outta the DOM, but apparently the variable height of the header will control the top position of the absolute element. Since the leftcol isn't "floating" anymore, IE^ no longer renders the 3px jog.

Sweet!

My Goodness

2007-08-10T10:05:00.000-07:00

I've created this account now and just neglected it like my neighbor's insolent children while they're away on vacation and I'm supposed to be babysitting.

I guess eventually I'll just end up backlogging all of my other journals' blogs in here to bulk up.

Please subscribe to my RSS. I promise good times ahead.